Lost in the dim
streets of the
Marunouchi district
I describe
this wounded city in an
  unending internal
monologue as I follow
the signs to Tokyo Station and
descend into the
underground passages
  of the metro,
seeking life and anything bright
in this half-lit, humid midnight.

I find the train finally
to Shibuya, the Piccadilly
and Times Square of Japan,
and even there the lights
are dimmer and the neon
  that does remain
  is all the more garish by
contrast.
I cross the street
near a sign that says
  "Baby Dolls" in English
over a business that turns
out to be a pet
  shop, of all things.

Like
the Japanese, I sometimes feel I live
in reduced circumstances, forced to proceed with caution:
A poorly chosen
adjective, a
mangled metaphor
could so easily trigger the
tsunami that
    sweeps away the containment
             facilities that
                   protect us
                        from ourselves
                                                            and others.
  
The next night at dinner, the sweltering room
     suddenly rocks and
        conversation stops
                  as the building sways and the
candles flicker.

'Felt like a 4, maybe a 5,'
says one of my tablemates,
a friend from years ago
in the States.

'At least a five-and-a-half,'
says another, gesturing
at the still-moving shadows
on the wall. And I think
     of other sweaty, dimly lit rooms,
      bodies in slow, restrained motion,       all
          in a moment that falls
                         between
                                     tremors.

         Then the swaying stops and we return
to our dinner. The shock, or aftershock,
isn't mentioned again,
though we do return, repeatedly, to the
big one,
         and the tidal wave that
                           swept so much away.

En route to the monsoon
I go east to come west,
   clouds gathering slowly
     in the vicinity of my chest.

Next day in Shanghai, the sun's glare reflects
  off skyscrapers,
and the streets teem
with determined shoppers
and sightseers
wielding credit cards and iPhone cameras, clad
in T-shirts with English words and phrases.
I fall
          in step
             beside a young woman on
                 the outdoor escalator whose
shirt, white on black,
reads, 'I am very, very happy.' I smile
and then notice, coming
down the other side,
another woman
wearing
        exactly the same
       message, only
                        in neon pink. So many
                                  very,
                                          very
                                                 happy people!
Yet the ATMs sometimes dispense
counterfeit 100 yuan notes and
elsewhere in the realm
      police fire on
      protestors seeking
                more than consumer goods,
while officials fret
about American credit
and the security of their investments, and
     the government executes mayors for taking
                       bribes from real estate developers.
    
    A drizzle greets me in Hong Kong,
a tablecloth of fog draped over the peaks
   that turns into a rain shower.
I find my way to work after many twists and turns
through shopping malls and building lobbies and endless
turning halls of luxury retail.
               At dinner I have a century egg and think
of Chinese mothers
urging their children,
'Eat! Eat your green, gooey treat.
On the street afterwards, a
near-naked girl grabs my arm,
pulls me toward a doorway marked by a 'Live Girls’
sign. 'No kidding,’ I think as I pull myself carefully
free, and cross the street.

On the flight to Bombay, I doze
   under a sweaty airline blanket, and
       dream that I am already there and the rains
         have come in earnest as I sit with the presumably
           semi-fictional Didier of Shantaram in the real but as-yet-unseen
            Leopold's Café, drinking Kingfishers,
              and he is telling me,  confidentially,
                     exactly where to find what I’ve lost as I wake
with the screech and grip of wheels on runway.
            

     Next day on the street outside the real Leopold's,
bullet holes preserved in the walls from the last terrorist attack,
I am trailed through the Colaba district
by a mother and children,  'Please sir, buy us milk, sir, buy us some rice,
I will show you the store.'
    A man approaches, offering a drum,
                        another a large balloon (What would I do with that?)
A shoeshine guy offers
                                           to shine my sneakers, then shares
the story of his arrival and struggle in Bombay.
     And I buy
             the milk and the rice and some
                      small cakes and in a second
                          the crowd of children swells
                               into the street
               and I sense
                     the danger of the crazy traffic to the crowd
                         that I have created, and I
think, what do I do?
           I flee, get into a taxi and head
                             to the Gateway of India, feeling
                                                                                  that I have failed a test.

                                       My last night in Mumbai, the rains come, flooding
     streets and drenching pavement dwellers and washing
the humid filth from the air. When it ends
           after two hours, the air is cool and fresh
                                  and I take a stroll at midnight
          in the street outside my hotel and enter the slum
   from which each morning I have watched
the residents emerge,  perfectly coiffed. I buy
some trinkets at a tiny stand and talk briefly
      with a boy who approaches, curious about a foreigner out for a walk.

A couple of days after that, in
the foothills of the Himalayas,  monks' robes flutter
on a clothesline like scarlet prayer flags behind the
Dalai Lama's temple.
I trek to 11,000 feet along a
narrow rocky path through thick
monsoon mist,
   stopping every 10 steps
to
   catch
        my  breath,
              testing each rock before placing my weight.
Sometimes
    the surface is slick and I nearly fall,
sometimes
    the stones
        themselves shift. I learn slowly, like some
             newborn foal, or just another
                clumsy city boy,
                   that in certain terrains the
       smallest misstep
                            can end with a slide
                                             into the abyss.
                  At the peak there's a chai shop that sells drinks and cigarettes
                                of all things and I order a coffee and noodles for lunch.
While I eat,
      perched on a rock in a silence that is both ex- and
      in-ternal,
the clouds in front of me slowly part to reveal
a glacier that takes up three-quarters of the sky, craggy and white and
beautiful. I snap a few shots,
quickly,
before the cloud curtain closes
again,
obscuring the mountain.
                                                
                                     --Rob Urban: Tokyo, Shanghai, Mumbai, Delhi, Dharamshala
                                        7/13/11-7/30/11

A true story by  Thula Bopela**

I have no idea whether the white man I am writing about is still alive or not. He gave me an understanding of what actually happened to us Africans, and how sinister it was, when we were colonized. His name was Ronald Stanley Peters, Homicide Chief, Matabeleland, in what was at the time Rhodesia. He was the man in charge of the case they had against us, ******. I was one of a group of ANC/ZAPU guerillas that had infiltrated into the Wankie Game Reserve in 1967, and had been in action against elements of the Rhodesian African rifles (RAR), and the Rhodesian Light Infantry (RLI). We were now in the custody of the British South Africa Police (BSAP), the Rhodesian Police. I was the last to be captured in the group that was going to appear at the Salisbury (Harare) High Court on a charge of ******, 4 counts.
‘I have completed my investigation of this case, Mr. Bopela, and I will be sending the case to the Attorney-General’s Office, Mr. Bosman, who will the take up the prosecution of your case on a date to be decided,’ Ron Peters told me. ‘I will hang all of you, but I must tell you that you are good fighters but you cannot win.’
‘Tell me, Inspector,’ I shot back, ‘are you not contradicting yourself when you say we are good fighters but will not win? Good fighters always win.’
‘Mr. Bopela, even the best fighters on the ground, cannot win if information is sent to their enemy by high-ranking officials of their organizations, even before the fighters begin their operations. Even though we had information that you were on your way, we were not prepared for the fight that you put up,’ the Englishman said quietly. ‘We give due where it is to be given after having met you in battle. That is why I am saying you are good fighters, but will not win.’
Thirteen years later, in 1980, I went to Police Headquarters in Harare and asked where I could find Detective-Inspector Ronald Stanley Peters, retired maybe. President Robert Mugabe had become Prime Minster and had released all of us….common criminal and freedom-fighter. I was told by the white officer behind the counter that Inspector Peters had retired and now lived in Bulawayo. I asked to speak to him on the telephone. The officer dialed his number and explained why he was calling. I was given the phone, and spoke to the Superintendent, the rank he had retired on. We agreed to meet in two days time at his house at Matshe-amhlophe, a very up-market suburb in Bulawayo. I travelled to Bulawayo by train, and took a taxi from town to his home.
I had last seen him at the Salisbury High Court after we had been sentenced to death by Justice L Lewis in 1967. His hair had greyed but he was still the tall policeman I had last seen in 1967. He smiled quietly at me and introduced me to his family, two grown up chaps and a daughter. Lastly came his wife, Doreen, a regal-looking Englishwoman. ‘He is one of the chaps I bagged during my time in the Service. We sent him to the gallows but he is back and wants to see me, Doreen.’ He smiled again and ushered me into his study.
He offered me a drink, a scotch whisky I had not asked for, but enjoyed very much I must say. We spent some time on the small talk about the weather and the current news.
‘So,’ Ron began, ‘they did not hang you are after all, old chap! Congratulations, and may you live many more!’ We toasted and I sat across him in a comfortable sofa. ‘A man does not die before his time, Ron’ I replied rather gloomily, ‘never mind the power the judge has or what the executioner intends to do to one.’
‘I am happy you got a reprieve Thula,’, Ron said, ‘but what was it based on? I am just curious about what might have prompted His Excellency Clifford Du Pont, to grant you a pardon. You were a bunch of unrepentant terrorists.’
‘I do not know Superintendent,’ I replied truthfully. ‘Like I have said, a man does not die before his time.’ He poured me another drink and I became less tense.
‘So, Mr. Bopela, what brings such a lucky fellow all the way from happy Harare to a dull place like our Bulawayo down here?’
‘Superintendent, you said to me after you had finished your investigations that you were going to hang all of us. You were wrong; we did not all hang. You said also that though we were good fighters we would not win. You were wrong again Superintendent; we have won! We are in power now. I told you that good fighters do win.’
The Superintendent put his drink on the side table and stood up. He walked slowly to the window that overlooked his well-manicured garden and stood there facing me.
‘So you think you have won Thula? What have you won, tell me. I need to know.’
‘We have won everything Superintendent, in case you have not noticed. Every thing! We will have a black president, prime minister, black cabinet, black members of Parliament, judges, Chiefs of Police and the Army. Every thing Superintendent. I came all the way to come and ask you to apologize to me for telling me that good fighters do not win. You were wrong Superintendent, were you not?’
He went back to his seat and picked up his glass, and emptied it. He poured himself another shot and put it on the side table and was quiet for a while.
‘So, you think you have won everything Mr. Bopela, huh? I am sorry to spoil your happiness sir, but you have not won anything. You have political power, yes, but that is all. We control the economy of this country, on whose stability depends everybody’s livelihood, including the lives of those who boast that they have political power, you and your victorious friends. Maybe I should tell you something about us white people Mr. Bopela. I think you deserve it too, seeing how you kept this nonsense warm in your head for thirteen hard years in prison. ‘When I get out I am going to find Ron Peters and tell him to apologize for saying we wouldn’t win,’ you promised yourself. Now listen to me carefully my friend, I am going to help you understand us white people a bit better, and the kind of problem you and your friends have to deal with.’
‘When we planted our flag in the place where we built the city of Salisbury, in 1877, we planned for this time. We planned for the time when the African would rise up against us, and perhaps defeat us by sheer numbers and insurrection. When that time came, we decided, the African should not be in a position to rule his newly-found country without taking his cue from us. We should continue to rule, even after political power has been snatched from us, Mr. Bopela.’
‘How did you plan to do that my dear Superintendent,’ I mocked.
‘Very simple, Mr. Bopela, very simple,’ Peters told me.
‘We started by changing the country we took from you to a country that you will find, many centuries later, when you gain political power. It would be totally unlike the country your ancestors lived in; it would be a new country. Let us start with agriculture. We introduced methods of farming that were not known I Africa, where people dug a hole in the ground, covered it up with soil and went to sleep under a tree in the shade. We made agriculture a science. To farm our way, an African needed to understand soil types, the fertilizers that type of soil required, and which crops to plant on what type of soil. We kept this knowledge from the African, how to farm scientifically and on a scale big enough to contribute strongly to the national economy. We did this so that when the African demands and gets his land back, he should not be able to farm it like we do. He would then be obliged to beg us to teach him how. Is that not power, Mr. Bopela?’
‘We industrialized the country, factories, mines, together with agricultural output, became the mainstay of the new economy, but controlled and understood only by us. We kept the knowledge of all this from you people, the skills required to run such a country successfully. It is not because Africans are stupid because they do not know what to do with an industrialized country. We just excluded the African from this knowledge and kept him in the dark. This exercise can be compared to that of a man whose house was taken away from him by a stronger person. The stronger person would then change all the locks so that when the real owner returned, he would not know how to enter his own house.’
We then introduced a financial system – money (currency), banks, the stock market and linked it with other stock markets in the world. We are aware that your country may have valuable minerals, which you may be able to extract….but where would you sell them? We would push their value to next-to-nothing in our stock markets. You may have diamonds or oil in your country Mr. Bopela, but we are in possession of the formulas how they may be refined and made into a product ready for sale on the stock markets, which we control. You cannot eat diamonds and drink oil even if you have these valuable commodities. You have to bring them to our stock markets.’
‘We control technology and communications. You fellows cannot even fly an aeroplane, let alone make one. This is the knowledge we kept from you, deliberately. Now that you have won, as you claim Mr. Bopela, how do you plan to run all these things you were prevented from learning? You will be His Excellency this, and the Honorable this and wear gold chains on your necks as mayors, but you will have no power. Parliament after all is just a talking house; it does not run the economy; we do. We do not need to be in parliament to rule your Zimbabwe. We have the power of knowledge and vital skills, needed to run the economy and create jobs. Without us, your Zimbabwe will collapse. You see now what I mean when I say you have won nothing? I know what I am talking about. We could even sabotage your economy and you would not know what had happened.’
We were both silent for some time, I trying not to show how devastating this information was to me; Ron Peters maybe gloating. It was so true, yet so painful. In South Africa they had not only kept this information from us, they had also destroyed our education, so that when we won, we would still not have the skills we needed because we had been forbidden to become scientists and engineers. I did not feel any anger towards the man sitting opposite me, sipping a whisky. He was right.
‘Even the Africans who had the skills we tried to prevent you from having would be too few to have an impact on our plan. The few who would perhaps have acquired the vital skills would earn very high salaries, and become a black elite grouping, a class apart from fellow suffering Africans,’ Ron Peters persisted. ‘If you understand this Thula, you will probably succeed in making your fellow blacks understand the difference between ‘being in office’ and ‘being in power’. Your leaders will be in office, but not in power. This means that your parliamentary majority will not enable you to run the country….without us, that is.’
I asked Ron to call a taxi for me; I needed to leave. The taxi arrived, not quickly enough for me, who was aching to depart with my sorrow. Ron then delivered the coup de grace:
‘What we are waiting to watch happening, after your attainment of political power, is to see you fighting over it. Africans fight over power, which is why you have seen so many coups d’etat and civil wars in post-independent Africa. We whites consolidate power, which means we share it, to stay strong. We may have different political ideologies and parties, but we do not **** each other over political differences, not since ****** was defeated in 1945. Joshua Nkomo and Robert Mugabe will not stay friends for long. In your free South Africa, you will do the same. There will be so many African political parties opposing the ANC, parties that are too afraid to come into existence during apartheid, that we whites will not need to join in the fray. Inside whichever ruling party will come power, be it ZANU or the ANC, there will be power struggles even inside the parties themselves. You see Mr. Bopela, after the struggle against the white man, a new struggle will arise among yourselves, the struggle for power. Those who hold power in Africa come within grabbing distance of wealth. That is what the new struggle will be about….the struggle for power. Go well Mr. Bopela; I trust our meeting was a fruitful one, as they say in politics.’
I shook hands with the Superintendent and boarded my taxi. I spent that night in Bulawayo at the YMCA, 9th Avenue. I slept deeply; I was mentally exhausted and spiritually devastated. I only had one consolation, a hope, however remote. I hoped that when the ANC came into power in South Africa, we would not do the things Ron Peters had said we would do. We would learn from the experiences of other African countries, maybe Ghana and Nigeria, and avoid coups d’etat and civil wars.
In 2007 at Polokwane, we had full-blown power struggle between those who supported Thabo Mbeki and Zuma’s supporters. Mbeki lost the fight and his admirers broke away to form Cope. The politics of individuals had started in the ANC. The ANC will be going to Maungaung in December to choose new leaders. Again, it is not about which government policy will be best for South Africa; foreign policy, economic, educational, or social policy. It is about Jacob Zuma, Kgalema Motlhante; it is about Fikile Mbalula or Gwede Mantashe. Secret meetings are reported to be happening, to plot the downfall of this politician and the rise of the other one.
Why is it not about which leaders will best implement the Freedom Charter, the pivotal document? Is the contest over who will implement the Charter better? If it was about that, the struggle then would be over who can sort out the poverty, landlessness, unemployment, crime and education for the impoverished black masses. How then do we choose who the best leader would be if we do not even know who will implement which policies, and which policies are better than others? We go to Mangaung to wage a power struggle, period. President Zuma himself has admitted that ‘in the broad church the ANC is,’ there are those who now seek only power, wealth and success as individuals, not the nation. In Zimbabwe the fight between President Robert Mugabe and Morgan Tsvangirai has paralysed the country. The people of Zimbabwe, a highly-educated nation, are starving and work as garden and kitchen help in South Africa.
What the white man told me in Bulawayo in 1980 is happening right in front of my eyes. We have political power and are fighting over it, instead of consolidating it. We have an economy that is owned and controlled by them, and we are fighting over the crumbs falling from the white man’s ‘dining table’. The power struggle that raged among ANC leaders in the Western Cape cost the ANC that province, and the opposition is winning other municipalities where the ANC is squabbling instead of delivering. Is it too much to understand that the more we fight among ourselves the weaker we become, and the stronger the opposition becomes?
Thula Bopela writes in his personal capacity, and the story he has told is true; he experienced alone and thus is ultimately responsible for it.

Governors,
Mayors,
Policemen,
Night keepers,
Men folk and all of you
On the crest of powers that be
Don’t brutalize prostitutes,
Nor mishandle ******,
Or terrorize harlots,

They were born natural
Innocent and callow
With plain white brains
Not tainted with any miss-morals,
Genuine in hearts
And humane in the genesis,

Until they grew up
Beyond father and mother
Clan and relatives,
Into the realm of money civilizations,
Where man and woman,
Must sell to survive,
Sell the wares of trade,
Commodities and tools of work,
Where men sell labour of their arms
To those crafty buyers,
And women sell smiles,
And the ******* of their *****,
To serve vice of man
In the glory of warped thought,

Prostitutes have no tribe,
Neither class nor race,
They have no permanent foe
Nor permanent friend,
They have no permanent memory,
Their love is devoid of logic,
They love most but fickle,
Where they make no money
And love least but with nostalgia
where they make money,
So don’t brutalize them,

Only love them,
Pay them,
Kiss them fondly
And sing to them,
Lyrical songs of love,
Sent them to lull and slumber
With your sensuous ******
Of their ******* fountains,
Both male and female
****** of your rendezvous.

Have you heard
of a town called blue?
The reason for the name?
Sure, I can tell you.

So smile, relax
And try not to frown
'Cause the story you'll hear
Is not a happy one.

Picture a city,
An ancient town,
Full of people
Who all look down.

Now picture it blue,
Their clothes, their skin,
Everything they own,
Even the smallest ring!

The roads are blue,
The buildings are blue,
The houses, the cars,
Even the food too!

The sad thing is,
They all look the same,
Their clothes, their hair,
And they all never change.

They had no personality,
They never had much fun,
They were always on edge,
As if something would go wrong.

No imagination
Was the main problem they had.
The reason for this
Was a mayor who was sad.

The town had a history
Of sad, sad mayors
Who make others sad
And sorrow in layers.

Everything was safe
And always sound
But something was changed
When the mayor's son was born.

On a calm spring night,
On the twentieth of May,
Joe was born,
Looking bright as the day.

This was a problem
That the mayor despised
His son had colour
Except for his blue eyes.

He had pale skin
And a pair of pale hands
His hair was blonde
Just like the sand.

So his father trained Joe
To be blue like him
He had to grow up
His patience grew thin.

Day and night
The mayor always tried
His plan did work
At least in his eyes.

Joe's hair remained yellow.
His skin became blue
But his mind never changed
As the mayor thought it would.

In a last attempt,
He locked him in a room,
Told him to grow up
Ever so soon.

So with sadness and sorrow
Joe sat down on his bed
He imagined a life
All in his head.

Then one day,
on a pretty summer night,
Joe escaped
Disappeared in plain sight.

He wanted to see
Outside of his town
Wanted to see
What exactly was going on.

Why were his people
Always so sad?
Always angry,
Or always mad?

He walked and walked
To the edge of his town
Where a wall stood high
Mighty and proud.

He found a small door
That lead outside
He pulled it open
And squirmed at the light.

What he saw,
He couldn't have imagined
For he saw colours
That looked like magic.

He saw red and yellow
With green and white
He saw orange and purple
And black like the night.

He saw trees with specks
Of brown and green,
A bat, a bird
And other small things.

The boy was in wonder
As how could this be?
He wondered if the lack of this
Was why they weren't ever happy.

Then he saw
A shack near a lake,
The walls were ancient
The paint was flaked.

He knocked on the door
One, two, three
A boy opened and said
"Hey! You look like me!

Except for the skin
Or the clothes you wear
I never saw someone
Who could look this sad!"

Joe examined the boy
The boy who talked
He told Joe to come in
And in he walked.

Joe then learned
That his name was Kyle,
And the weird thing on his face
Was called a smile.

Then Joe asked
How Kyle could be so happy
So he said,
"I imagine and then I be!"

Then Kyle asked
Why he was always blue
Then Joe answered,
"If only I knew!

My father, the mayor
is always sad,
He tells me to grow up
And then he gets mad.

He says, 'The real world
Isn't a happy one
You have to learn
Or else you'll fall down'.

Kyle shook his head
"That's not what mother told me
The world isn't sad
It only is if you imagine it to be".

The longer he talked
The more Joe changed
His skin turned pale
And colour he gained.

The moon rose
And the stars all shone
When the lights went out,
Joe knew it was time to go.

So off he went
Saying 'Good bye' to Kyle
And on his face
Was what his friend called a 'smile'.

He told his father
About the things he learned
He told him to imagine
To get the happiness he yearned.

But his father didn't listen
And told him to go
"Learn the real world,
You have to grow".

But Joe wasn't satisfied
His father wasn't happy,
Then he made a new plan
"I have to get them to think like me".

So he went and got a paper
And got out a pen
Then he drew a blue ball,
being thrown by children.

But it wasn't enough
As he saw this every day
So he took out more paper
And began to paint.

He painted a person
But with huge ears and a tail!
He painted a hammer
In the shape of a nail!

He painted a bat
But with butterfly wings!
And painted some other,
Wonderful things.

He climbed up the stairs
Onto the front porch,
And he yelled out aloud
To get the attention of all.

"Listen, all of you!
Pay attention
Take in this lesson
Use imagination.

You can be happy
If you believe to be
You can be you
And I can be me.

The reason we look alike
Is because we can't imagine
So put your mind to use
It'll be like magic.

Think of anything
Your mind can weave
It can be real
If you believe".

And with that
Joe quieted down,
He showed a smile
As he got rid of his frown.

He threw his paintings
Out to them all,
Told them to see
What cou­ld be done.

He looked at the crowd
And saw his friend from the shack
And slowly but surely,
Kyle began to cl­ap.

The others were hesitant
Their thoughts ran wild
"What if th­e mayor's right?
This is only his child!"

A girl stood up
She lo­oked five years old
She joined in with Kyle,
Her claps loud and b­old.

They all looked on
As the girl showed a smile
And one by one
They joined, in a while.

But ­this didn't last
As a voice rang out,
Joe looked behind
To see hi­s father lash out.

"The real world is sad
It's corrupted and mad,
You have to be aware
Or you'll end in despair.

You shouldn'­t imagine,
You shouldn't be different,
You shouldn't be you,
And ­you shouldn't attempt.

If you are different
Then it'll give a re­ason
For enemies to rise,
The cause of treason.

You shouldn't be­lieve
That you could be happy
It will never last
It's what father­ taught me".

The crowd grew quiet,
Hearing the mayor's speech,
Of course they ­can't be happy!
"I shouldn't be me".

His son lost hope
And let h­is thoughts go blue,
His shoulders sagged 
He had a frown too.

Kyle was desperate
And his­ friend needed him
So the coloured boy shouted,
"Don't listen, Jo­e! Or you won't win!".

Remember what I told you!
Remember what y­ou learned!
You have to believe,
To get the things you yearned".
­
Joe shook his thoughts,
He was back on track
So both of them syn­chronized
About what they learned in the shack.

"The world isn't sad! 
It only is if you imagine it to be­!
You can be happy,
You have to believe!

Remember this talk,
Rem­ember this speech,
You can be you
And I can be me.

Think of anyt­hing
Your  mind can weave,
You'll make it real,
If you believe".
­
Joe paused 
And so did Kyle
They both had on
What they called a ­'smile'.

The crowd sighed 
And made their own smiles
They knew t­hey were happy
It would stretch on for miles.

One by one
Their colours changed,
From blue to red
And a bit of Orange.

And all the town 
Was covered i­n hues,
The people were in awe
"Look at me! Look at you!"

And th­at was the day,
People were never the same,
In a town called 'Blu­e'
The reason for the name?

Sure, I can tell you,
And so can they.
It was to remember
This very special day.

It was to remember 
That they were happy again,
All because of two friends
Who weren't afraid o­f a change.

Laughter
Laughter explosions
Diabolic cruelty
That crude red carving
The grinning maw
Of the purity devouring beast
Know best for his face
His maliciously insane
Irrational thought patterns
He laughs at a two word phrase
As he caves in a woman's face
Sprays bleach and mace
from a fake flower on his chest
Lobs hand grenades recklessly
Muttering jokes that only he fully understands
Minions bent to his twisted humor
Severed limbs and organs sent
With personally crafted limericks
Fourteen inch barrel
.44 Magnum revolver
Crash a clown car into rush hour traffic
Feed the mayors poodle
To a pack of hyenas
Grease paint white face
Toxic green locks, slicked back
Red Cheshire cat grin
Ear to ear
Like the mouth of a demon of madness
Do not ponder why he laughs
He laughs because he must.

POLAND, France, Judea ran in her veins,
Singing to Paris for bread, singing to Gotham in a fizz at the pop of a bottle's cork.
  
"Won't you come and play wiz me" she sang ... and "I just can't make my eyes behave."
"Higgeldy-Piggeldy," "Papa's Wife," "Follow Me" were plays.
  
Did she wash her feet in a tub of milk? Was a strand of pearls sneaked from her trunk? The newspapers asked.
Cigarettes, tulips, pacing horses, took her name.
  
Twenty years old ... thirty ... forty ...
Forty-five and the doctors fathom nothing, the doctors quarrel, the doctors use silver tubes feeding twenty-four quarts of blood into the veins, the respects of a prize-fighter, a cab driver.
And a little mouth moans: It is easy to die when they are dying so many grand deaths in France.
  
A voice, a shape, gone.
A baby bundle from Warsaw ... legs, torso, head ... on a hotel bed at The Savoy.
The white chiselings of flesh that flung themselves in somersaults, straddles, for packed houses:
A memory, a stage and footlights out, an electric sign on Broadway dark.
  
She belonged to somebody, nobody.
No one man owned her, no ten nor a thousand.
She belonged to many thousand men, lovers of the white chiseling of arms and shoulders, the ivory of a laugh, the bells of song.
  
Railroad brakemen taking trains across Nebraska prairies, lumbermen jaunting in pine and tamarack of the Northwest, stock ranchers in the middle west, mayors of southern cities
Say to their pals and wives now: I see by the papers Anna Held is dead.

Anyways more of me lol, OK I grew up with a mum and dad good Christian parents though both went off the path!¡ mum is ex. Well still alcoholic but don't drink once addict always one as they say.. I saved her life many times from getting killed .. Me mother is mine soulmate no not sexually. She's mine best friend in this world if I lost her I'd lose me really in a way.. Dad is ex pill addict currently still is. Though he gets quote legal pills for back pain herniated disk) he is part of reason I got into a 22 people drug bust... I was originally charged in drug bust with trafficking oxy  contins meaning ( an felony 2) meaning trafficking in drugs. And got charged with trafficking ******* up to and ounce between two deals I made to a guy who set me up between two Thursdays....I knew this guy from school back in day so you all know.. He wore wire on me. Had police phone I used to call me dealer which police listened and sit right out side me apts.... Anyways I got on probation continued to use drugs was blessed... Those charges I told u were dropped to aggravate
Possession of drugs from the two oxys for me in me pocket... Lawyer knew I did these deals not for money but pills... So yes messed up probation so sent to crc prison for four months than to pickaway prison right across the street which used to be an old army base than in the thirties was a mental ward for people who had demons.... So yeah in prison people could find out I sang... I became the singer of the prison I did their talent shows. I spoke out against gangs killing gangs in there knowing I'd be ridiculed from gangs sitting and watching me but I got respect singing to whole crowd and I got good respect from all people.  Because I believe in loving all people. Not war. Not hate not anger or hate but love conquers all evils.... If humañs would only understand that. Oh more u don't know I also played for the ex mayor at age sixteen for a drug Free thing I use to be in called 3d ironically was a hypocrite using drugs at time . anyways played at ballroom of Toledo art museum in front of a crowd of the mayors.. Also played at  a high school in Cleveland Ohio doing me own music two songs ... There were 350 eyes on me which felt amazing.... And did a show at a private school for girls and boys and had news people from wtol news there in Toledo.... So yes I need to get back into music I miss it alot .?. I've been poet along time can't tell u really how long?!? I can communicate with spirits literally I hear them in me home . I see their orbs . me and mum both. We got pics of them and sound recordings though try to stay away from that *** we don't always know if good or evil demons are coming in... I've been scratched by them... Broke out in rashes from them touching me. Can feel cold from them when their near... Hear them speak in me ear so only I hear or out loud where me and mum hear both *** me and her are in tune spiritually big time... Dad also hears like me and mum footsteps in house or in addict in apt. Yet have Christ to protect me in bad... And when I pray to Christ those DEMON'S leave. They hate christ!!!!!No more natious feeling that they cause no more depression when they leave.... They are real  for u who don't believe.... Also I usualy wear long hair but cut whenever I need to even it up.... I had friends in past yet due to their drug use still they all left me after mine bust showing me not real friends.... So mums me best friend so is many others on here I'm close with .. You have all showed me soo much love I've never felt... God bless u all . I thank u to me soul....I love to cook to.. I also love giving back massages and whole body massages.. I love brushing ones hair to and rubbing their eyes lids temples.... Also with one I love pulling her hair stroking fingers in it to help her relax on back of her head... And massaging her... Using candles to relax her and I love incense.. Sage and Christ is for the demons lol.... But I love cooking for a woman ... And making her a bath to relax... And I am a true hopeless romantic......

Not done more coming wait to see (;

Every time you take a leap

There’s someone pulling on your shoe

To pull you back and try to keep

You from doing what you do


Naysayers!

Jealous ones,

Block-your-sun,

Wreck-your-fun

Gloom mayors


The ones who simply won’t believe

You hold the power to achieve


But they don’t know what you can do

How strong you are, they don’t know you


So we won’t let them in our way

We’ll pay no mind to nayers’ say


They’ll have to judge us from afar

For they don’t know just what we are:


No-fretters

Can’t-bother-me

Get-off-my-tree

“I-will-succeed”­

Go-getters


Soon enough they’ll surely see

Just how mighty we can be

Bring about a second war,
or pack up - and go home.
We can't accept apologies
from Sicily or Rome.

We can't impart cartography
to mayors without maps.
And no one wades the rivers here,
and water fills the cracks.

And water, liquid power naps,
repels us at the coast,
But draws us in at pipeline ends
and haunts us like Dad's ghost.

I died sometime, the future came,
and everybody smirked
and asked me, while we waited
for my casket, if it hurt.

come all you story readers
be you young or be you old
to the land of sir dolly dimple
were fairytales unfold
not so far away
and not so long ago
lived a boy named dolly dimple
and a horse named dynamo
they lived in a land of tyrants
were fear and greed was bred
yet this boy called dolly dimple
had a halo on his head
he grew to be a decent man
big and brave and strong
he rode the land on dynamo
to put right all that's wrong
he rescued damsels in distress
he put dragons fires out
he made the land a safer place
he was loved beyond all doubt
yet as he grew so famous
so did the boy next door
the wicked tyrant gordon
did evil deeds galore
now gordon was a wicked boy
who grew to be an evil man
to undo the good deeds dolly did
was gordons master plan
now gordon hated good sir dolly
ever since they both were boys
cos sir dolly quite by accident
broke one of gordons toys
so gordon kidnapped all the princesses
and locked them in his tower
to grind down all the corn he grew
and turn it into flour
he crept into peoples houses
to steal kids from there bed
to work in his bakeries
to turn his flour into bread
then he sent out all the orphans
to work on the street
seling his bread
to the people they,d meet
then he bought up all the houses
with the money he made
and doubled the rent
that the poor people paid
now everybody panicked
shouted screamed and bawled
till someone suggested
the mayor should be called
now the mayor listened carefully
and when he heard it all
he picked up his phone
and gave sir dolly a call
he quickly told sir dolly
what was going on
on dolly said dont worry mayor
i,ll be right along
so he dressed in his armour
loaded his pop gun
climbed up on dynamo
and his good deed had begun
he rode up to the tower
scaled the walls of stone
peeped into the window
to see the princesses were alone
when he saw it was all clear
he climbed into the tower
and made a big rope ladder
from the bags that held the flour
so sir dolly and the princesses
climbed down to the ground
and he took them all home safely
except 4 one he found
she was princess of the orphans
princess clare was her name
sir dolly fell in love with her
princess clare felt the same
now sir dolly had a mission
he knew he must go alone
so he dropped off princess Clare
at the mayors home
princess Clare  told sir dolly to take care
he said dont worry i,ll be back
with the wicked tyrant gordon
******* in a sack
so he rode off on dynamo
to the bakery door
so he could free all the children
so they could sleep once more
he kicked down the door
took off every chain
rode them all home
and tucked them back in bed again
then he rode to the orphanage
and hid in bushes by the gate
he knew gordon would come back 4 the kids
all he had to do was wait
first thing in the morning
just as it got light
he saw gordon coming
so he jumped out of sight
sir dolly shouted gordon
we meet again at last
i,ve come to punish you 4 all ur crimes
ur evil days are past
yet gordon was so quick
he turned and as he fled
sir dolly pulled his pop gun out
and shot him in the head
all gordon cud do
was fall with a shout
as the cork from dollies pop gun
quickly knocked him out
so dolly tied gordons hands up
tight behind his back
then picked up evil gordon
and dropped him in a sack
he put gordon on dynamos back
tied him on with his tail
rode him back to town
and threw him into jail
now the whole town cheered
and shouted dolly,s name
and gave him a medal
for stopping gordons evil game
now princess Clare
gave dolly a big kiss
and everybody cheered again
and not long after this
sir dolly and princess Clare
became husband and wife
and lived happily ever after
for the rest of there life

We give thanks to the managers,
the presidents and CEOs.
We give thanks to the owners,
the govenors and heroes.

We give thanks to the leaders,
for all that they do.
We give thanks to the mayors,
and the supervisors too.

We see what they do,
and give thanks every day.
For roles so important,
don't they deserve all the praise?

But what about the one
who cleans up the mess,
that you didn't even consider
picking up when you left?

And what about the one
who holds open the door,
for ten hours each day
all while being ignored?

And what about the one
who drives you around?
In a car all day driving
rushed and rude people to town.

We admire the collage,
and we thank the artist too.
But do we ever take the time
to stop and thank the glue?

What would hold it together
if it were not there?
Who would pick up after you,
or drive you from here to there?

All the people in charge
may create a masterpiece,
but without the glue to hold it,
it would all just fall to pieces.

Though like the kings and queens was she
Born who in lordly bricks palatially dwell,
And like the presidents that rule by majority
Votes the Republic, and like the verily well-
Pruned governors and mayors of states and cities
That live by the plough of the citizenry,
And like those folks of noble duties
Who delicately deck and behave benighly;
Yet this live in inclement circumstances, a
Woman nuts and partly ****. The round-
About her abode hath been and there the sheila--
Come rain, come shine--is lugubriously found.

Death be nimble, Death be quick.
Walls of decaying urban brick
rotten scars of surfaced pain
scratched away by city cranes.

Landfills and houses fill the rest
behold the putrid angels nest,
mayors of blind, children of deaf
tongues removed from gifted chef.

Brothers and sisters fade alike
rusted daggers flawless strike
Hearts of lions dull alone
Hard men's withered fingers groan.

Light forsaken in cities dead
plagues of sorrow swiftly spread
today is dying, morrow's sick,
Death be nimble, Death be quick.

The Pearl of the Orient is the name
Filled with beauty untamed
With waters so clear it purifies the mind
And sand so white it brighten up the night

With so much natural beauty to behold
From the biggest of clams
to the smallest of toads
It is shrouded by blessings untold

But nothing in this world is crystal clear
So is my country
With thousands of people online
But millions have nowhere to sleep by this time
What could go wrong ?

All are country wanted was a hero who loved us
But all we get is a celebrity the runs for congress
Or a family that made politics its business
What could go wrong?

Now we have roads that crumble
Bridges that can't hold up a people
Houses made of plastic or things unknown
All the public schools filled with the local mayors initials
And streets that you dare walk when you are alone

But a country that's been conquered several times should know
We are free from the Americans hold
The Spanish control
And the Japanese grasps
But why does it act like it is bounded ?

We look down upon ourselves
Serving when we are already free
Copying concepts when we can be making
And with all of this we live with a culture that should be unknown

We are free
We are a people
We are warriors ready to fight
Yet we keep peace when there should be peace

We maybe be looked down upon
But we stand
Changing the world
Hand in hand

So let us brake the chains the holds our freedom
Know what our constitution means
Because we won't be controlled no more

Blessings await this holy nation
As power comes down to lift this creation
Destroying all words of condemnation
Leading the corrupt to accusation

We are rising

He languished in the stocks but never was hunger
A problem. For he caught apples between his yappers,
Playing catch with each bite, it flew through the air
And once again a pinching of it till a stalk was left.
The crowd stood around in awe of his culinary
Performance, then they threw once again.

Released his time of languishing ended and returning
To his ship, "never slap the mayors wife's ****, he
Thought but who was he kidding he would do it
Again but next time not in front of him. She was where
He had left her, pride on his bearded features.
Daddies home, as his hands caressed her wooden features.

He went to his abode, lingering views of a picture
Of the oceans essence of high pitched waves. He pressed
Upon a singular spot and a secret revealed itself on his views.
A small casket, others would have seen it as a trinket box
Of lessened value. My precious thing of beauty that I hold,
I'll let you free when from port we discard the solid land.

The crew were pleased as the waves graced the ships bow
and the captain discarded his weavings of land lubbers
threads that clung to tight. Raise our flag my mates of
what is our nature true. Captain Black Heart Bart,
"Yes I know its a mouthful, but its my pirate #tag,
The chest came forth and with an even hand opened up.

The wisps clung to the captain as if a loving embrace,
my love, soul of the ship, lend us your breath to move
to our destination where the tides are silent and the
wind is death, motionless and soundless where ships
linger in a graveyard of wood and bones of the lost.
With a gesture the mists encircle the sails migrating forward.

Her breath kept motion where there would have been neither,
they stared at the wrecks of those lost in time. Were those
of white washed echoes, moving dead eyes following or
was it but the motionless reflection of the static seas grasp.
"Sir we see the place that her breath has taken us too,
"Thank you my love, you can now slumber, rest your breathe,

Upon the shores or blackened sand, they were called the
Remnant Tears, old lore said it was the tears of a lonely
god as he watched the sunset of his life, and these are all
that is left the residue of a time long past. They were sharp
as well, like jagged torn metal. We wore hadderned leather in
layers to save the blood from tearing from us as his did long ago.

We were home a shelter from those that would hunt us upon
ocean waves never did we take souls we just took material
things of value to sell, we melted precious metals, released
gems of equal sizes from their clasps, and in bowls they gleamed
of the suns rays ravishing the walls with a kaleidoscope of
colours that's changed with even shards of light gleaming through.


He sat on the crows nest of a ship, of older design than known,
made from not wood or metal another of majestic times long
faded into obscurity glance. Gathering thoughts on the mirrored
façade that never moved just like a reflection of above, one could
Be sent crazy in thought of which was land or sea, below or above.
He liked this illusion on his senses that was art to his perception.

Breezes of sea air rustled his beard and it was relaxing him
to slumber. but only when the waves graced him descending
into its eternal grasp would he rest these sea legged bones.
But now was the time to inspire the charmers below, with
a voice he greeted ears below. "Ya lazy dogs, move them bones,
And like mice they scurried to there hidey holes.

Nodding his head he discarded gravity as he plummeted to the
waiting deck below. Right or was that left no he was facing the
wrong way, she was playing tricks with her breath.  He burst in
to laughter and they nervously laughed with him, come on
my woman and men of the sea lets do some gentle persuading
that other relinquish there cluttered possessions to our ship.

With heart felt cheers they, sang their song to the stale winds,

"We're not pirates we be releasers of others greed,
"Possessions are who ever holds them be in cargo hold free,
"We'll never hurt you, we'll just gently nudge till you agree,

"Pirates that's a name we be called who we be,
"We be good looking, folks don't listen to history,
"We walked many a walk way plank to you and me,
"Yes I said we not above but that between you and me,

"Get done with the cutlass, respect the captains beard,
"We sail the high seas cos low ones make me sick,
"Trend setters of the ocean that's what we be,
"My flag is named skully, black & white he be,

"Pirates that's a name we be called who we be,
"We be good looking, folks don't listen to history,
"We walked many a walk way plank to you and me,
"Yes I said we not above but that between you and me,

Repeat and rinse sing what you feel, that's when I call upon
my beauty, "Awaken from slumber, breath to the wind,
And in to the great blue we sail, never a life have we took
never shall there be. For we are the new version of the old
but we will always win with her breath in front of me.

See you soon if to plunder I do mean, sail happy if your
not of greed and wealth or we will set our sights on thee.
The waves splash upon our bow, spray invigorate the souls
of all upon our beauty "The Wind Of The Sea, now ill
wish you good travels its time for us to earn our keep and
to visit those who need to lightened to heavy on the sea.

If the uncalled-for retort of a politician involves any portion of
their resume you can be assured that their soliloquy is a lie ...

Look back when speaking like a cockerel crows,
Chest puffed with pomp to gloat on gloried loss;
Dying men hung no glory on their throes.

At cenotaphs bedecked in bloodied rose
Bouquets, Lord Mayors regale in golden gloss:
Look back when speaking like a cockerel crows.

Prime Ministers parading TV shows
Glory in hanging ratings on the dross:
Dying men hung no glory on their throes.

Young men talk tough of national pride; old woes
Won't heal by stoning rolling migrant moss;
Look back when speaking like a cockerel crows.

Recall dull medals hung on fettered boughs,
Lest we forget the names of those embossed:
Dying men hung no glory on their throes.

Tread light through evergreen and tranquil rows,
Where heroes rest beneath white painted cross;
Look back when speaking like a cockerel crows,
Dying men hung no glory on their throes.

Candy canes like flowers sprouted
up and out of sandy plains and
Santa landed squarely, barely
visible.

             My head contains
confessions, but my heart is not
cathartic, and when tears impress
complexion marks like artists' pens
against my face, they start to blend.

                                                        But
Rudolph never pulled a sleigh of
mayors to the capitol, and
Blitzen never severed several
thousand Native captives' calls,
'cause elves are made like Cherokee:
with bones, and eyes, and hearts, and backs that
bleed when they are stabbed.

AiYo check it
First comes the happiness
Second comes love
Greed and money goes with the above
Uh
muthaphukkaz ain't watchin' the game
Too busy tryna maintain
An image
I broke the jaws of the laws
No more grips on me I'm free
So **** lady liberty I entice treachery
To enemies at the count of three
let the pistol smoke freely
Its the shot heard around the world
Shakin' the hearts of all little boys and girls
In the ghetto **** nation
Taking over  bleed the mayors and council city halls hands
Millions starving millions dying
and everybody crying
Cuz a celebrity died but no one cries
For the innocence of souls tookin'
Got them.demons lookin'
In the poverties around the globe
Clergy preaching Jesus is God and Jesus is for everybody
Religion is one of the biggest war propagandas
They ****** your image if you change there agenda
How many Brenda's?
Out there with a baby on welfare and they don't care
As problems continue to rise nigguhs open ya eyes
Don't be baptize by the TV lies
Pressure young gs to slang keys
End up.in jail next to they father
I ain't knocking the hustle but make ya endz
Then build ya own community
Don't let the dea cia fbi lead you astray
They know money feeds a hungry soul I'm like Castro keep the cash flow
Moving silently
don't let em braille you with greenery
Art of war ain't went no where sun tzu will tell ya what to do
Use ya enemies against ya enemies
And watch em crumble mumble end up killing themselves
While you sit back and laugh at the blood bath
The last thing they want is a ***** with brain and begin to taunt
The biggest mystery is who are blacks peeps in history
And the vision occurred me I'm the chosen just like black Jesus a revolutionary at heart from form of life I gotta bad start .
I see him.in the ghetto with me puffin' **** and Hennessey
or better yet cognac
I'm.back reincarnate
Takin' the steps of ancestry tears and scorns
Through decades centuries and millenniums
I'm rockin' nigguhs cranium
See what I see niggih don't be scared of a trigger?
Hells on earth we living in the end times skin is our sin
We know better but yet show it
Knowledge is bad thing to waste
Uh im.probably gone get buried with a another case
Innocent but shown guilty by the system
Brothers doing time for the dimes the governments drop they go back home and you go off the patty wagon name is ya number cogitating in ya cell as ya in jail can't make bail
Its heaven inside hell I shed tears for many years
Through tattoos uh I know I'm.bound for a casket
I'm still gone get drastic
my murderers wherein'
Black suits and shades unload rounds in my body Killuminati
I'm dead but now resurrected
The father gave me another chance redemption for my sins
I'm trapped in the corridors which doors
WIll I open heaven or hell is just another place in a cell ??
spiritually ensnared
Only.time will tell
Yea get yo mind right homies this ain't a game
Things done changed turned for the worse break the curse
Its never to let the change the game
Just a to let you know
How it go
Been feelin' this way since '94
Pac pain i got wisdom
**** the education institution
They never got a solution
Money always boostin'
While the pistols Shootin'
Government still lootin'
Takin' us back to slavery
One world order word to my unborn daughter
She facin' tragedy and she aint even here
I hear
Her soft cries watery eyes
Baby girl hold on strong
This is yo father so i know you strong
Uh im takin' this fame wayback
Back to Solomons temple and his wives
Along with his concubines
They done perveted the line
Wake up befor we see the flat line



he got some bad blood*
running up his veins

he got some wolf teeth
tearing up that lace like that

he got some soft lips
kissing the mayors no good ***** rotten rich teenage daugther, with her red lips and her bad intensions

he got himself a real nice face
smiling like that, getting 20 percent off addi mays special pancakes with pork bacon and scarmbled eggs drizzled with her top-secret mable syrup

*the boy got himself some bad blood, wolf teeth, soft lip and a real nice ******* face

Bootleggers on Sunday evening  ,  a little pink house on Kelleytown Road !  Waiting by the cattle gate , taking money  , calling back to the house via radio ! Waving customers through , one by one , driving by the shack without braking once , trunk wide open , in goes the whiskey , slammed shut , out the back gate , and off they went !  Sheriff Donald didn't seem to have a clue , alcohol sales on late Sunday afternoons ? For forty odd years this house became a legend , Councilmen , Deputies and Mayors knew of it's existence ! Cars from distant counties all over the state , flying up dirt roads leaving dust in their wake ! It was surely without doubt , the entire county convinced that the Sheriff drew a months salary on Sunday evenings !

Much like the Mayans thousands of years before,
Granting 2012 the honour to host
An apocalyptic end of the world,
Peruvian shamans now declare
2017 the year
Of turbulence and widespread war.

The healers thus reunite on a hill,
In the capital of Lima to perform
Cleansing rituals able to prevent
The fatal clash between North Korea and the US.
It comes at a time of heightened tensions
Between the two countries over
Threatening nuclear missile programmes.

An unprecedented inferno ignites the night of a West
London residential skyscraper burning
From its second to its twenty-seventh floor
Unleashing the worst nightmares
Of its sleeping inhabitants
And the courage of sleepless fire-fighters.

Colombia's Farc rebels hand over their weapons
To United Nations Inspectors
As part of historic peace accords,
While the President declares,
“Peace will be built little by little,
Like a cathedral, which you build brick by brick"
Revolutionary forces no longer armed.

Migrations creating social unrests
People fleeing their threatening nests,
As mayors plead governments not to let
Any more in and ministries ask, cities to absorb
Two hundred and fifty thousand more.
Coast guards relentlessly saving the drowning ones.

US Attorney General denies, having undisclosed meetings
With Russian officials in Washington hotels.
Any suggestions of collusion with the Kremlin described
As appalling and detestable lies.
Agency’s investigation into Russian political meddling impeded
As Intelligence believes in conspiracies. Memories of Cold Wars
And Bond movies where the ‘traitor’ was lucky to be fired and not shot.

While doctors announce people over 75 taking
Daily aspirin after a stroke or heart attack
Are at higher risk of major and sometimes fatal
Stomach bleeds than previously thought,
Anthropologists excavating in Morocco
Find fossils of potential ancestors, the oldest sapiens retrieved,
Tracing back our steps to 300, 000 years before present.

Across the ocean, somewhere in Arizona,
A man heading to a retirement home prepares,
Cleans up his garage with the help of a neighbour
And finds a 15 million dollar *******, he ignored
He ever had.

Once private priviledged and aloof
the Grange is now a public place
where children swing and slide and shine
flowers in their parents' eyes
where births and marriages and deaths
bare bones rest in Runcorn's archive.

Here people seek to right their wrongs
express their doubts and fears and views
it's here that ballots call the shots
for mayors and councillors and clerks
pursuing our priorities.

Your community
Build it up, build it up.
Make it something to be proud of living.

Stop comparing your situation to the wealthy side.
Many of times money dictates the level of crime.

Trouble doesn't always get those arrested with wealth.
They support the mayors and the governors during election time.
So essentially law enforcers over look certain level of crimes.

Your community,is what you want it to be?
Especially if you not trying to self police to keep it clean.

Drug dealers rather friends or not.
Brings trouble to your neighborhood and you just  a supporter.
If you not reporting the fools doing the trade.

And many times, you just as guilty.
Although you might not see it.
Sometimes churches plays a vital part.
If they not addressing ways to clean up your city's in various ways.

Your community is simply a reflection of you.

If , you be quiet.
You get ahead.
Be quiet and play the game.

Another word for don't rock the boat.
Be a cover-up instead an exposer.

Strange truth, this has help many rise through all ranks of society.

Presidents, mayors, governors, wardens, secretaries, various executives.
Fear, to be true to themselves.
Then again, bills help you to be quiet.

Even when you see wrongs before your very own eyes.

Whistleblowers, don't tell to tell.
Many only does it for the wealth.
And if looked a little closer at one time they was participants.


Going along with the schemes of an evil mind dreams until they got terminated.

Stay, not silent if right.
Truth stands out at all times.

over the parade the clouds grew threatening
blacker
rain was an inevitability
so I invited all the ten people at the
Clayhatchee Christmas parade to my house
where we made egg nog
roasted chestnuts
later after we all had a buzz
we toilet papered
the mayors trees
she lives next door
matter of fact
she was there helping
we have a good community
for a southern redneck outpost.

Things, we often say.
To reply, really?

We hear interracial couples complains about racist matters of dealing with people.
And cries in this present times, we would have gotten passed it.
Really?

Segregation, rules hadn't been that long eradicated in society.
So really?
All many of us can say.

Like mayors stating all police officers are upholding officers?
Really?
We know the truth.
Some breed hatred just by nature.
And the mayor must stay in good gracious with them.
Yes, really?

We see folks trying to state ***** is different than ****** just causing of rap skills of rappers.
Really?
Say it, to the wrong person and be willing to decide your own funeral.
Some of us not buying what some trying to defend.
Yes, really.


We see men walking around with pants hanging down by their butts.
Now, what REAL man do that?
You see this more on the streets than in prison.
Yes, really!

And it's allege this where it started?

So really?
We just got to say.
When we witness some of life's stupid things.

By Jennifersoter Ezewi

Some are destined to marry kings; some are destined to marry senators; some got married to presidents; some settled with mayors; some are happily married with ambassadors; some ends up happily married with business moguls; some ends up with promising futures and etcetera.

Marriage does not end at the ceremony of one. It's continuous. Life has it on timely dispensing saturation. Get ready for yours and make it happen or get caught up in the hands of fate or sudden love stories that kept saying yes...!

There's no perfect soul upon earth.
Don't matter what souls needs to be save?
But do accept that scandal, you bring to yourself.
Is scandal you bring to someone else.

Without there permission.
They now has became involved.
Hiding in shadows to avoid the conflicts.
All because you acted upon quick feelings instead of common sense.

Just adapt to your thoughts process.
That your one mistake creates a whole world of mess.

When scandal you create for yourself.
Brings others into it without their permission to be.

Presidents, governors and even mayors has had theirs.
And even we unknown folks has created our own.

Listen, Donald Trump is not a total idjut.
He has beautiful children and prolly not as
much money as he says, and won the Republican
Nomination. But, I kinda think "the say what you want
at anytime" is kinda ingratiating. Hell, I wouldn't vote for him,
and hope nobody would . I guess, what I am trying to
say is, he has,  *****, nuts , bigguns,
and no sense. I have seen too many of them.
It's like a tribute to our society,
tongue in cheek, that someone can put their foot in their mouth,
so many times and be running for President.
You should check out Mayors and Governors and Senators,
The government is full of them.
But most of them I don't trust as far I can throw their mama.
Trump , I trust to be a fool.
I know he will!

God, must be sitting back and smiling.
Smiling that within time his world will seek to be better.
He aware of the storms to come before us.

From the president, the governors, the judges, the mayors, the lawyers.
And mainly mention in his scriptures.

Power is a corrupt tool, if not used for the purpose he selects to do his will.

The Devil must be sitting back smiling.
Just like the serpent of disguise in Genesis he manipulates.
It's us that react to the scheme.
And many times Satan doesn't have to do a thing.

We hardly blame him in harm.
We seem to state Jesus told me to do this.


And nowhere in scriptures did our mightly Lord ****.
Nowhere!

So God must be smiling at us.

Flowing by the wetlands of Arundel
Overlooked by a castle up on high
Ptolemy first called it the Trisantonis
Is the River Arun running by

Also known as the Trespasser
A Southern Celtic Brythonic interpretation of the word
An indication of its tendency to flood
For centuries, this has been observed

Part of the Arun, was rumoured to be called the Arnus
Brythonic for run, go, or flow
And that Arundel may mean Arno-Dell
Or where the Dell of the flowing river did go

Remains of Iron-Age forts
To Roman ruins, signs of its' long history
Along with Arundel Castle founded in 1067
Chalk downs rise on either side, but no mystery

At Amberley Church, by Arundels' castle walls
Ghostly sitings of a girl, with golden ringlets in her hair
Hungry Seals sometimes ventured up river
In times long past, mistakenly thinking Mermaids were there!

In the Middle-Ages, the river was known as
River of Arundel, The Arundel River, or The High Stream of Arundel, to confuse
By 1577, the first use of it's modern name was recorded
Although the other names were still often in use

The Rother, The Chilt, and Upper Arun
Tri in Roman, the three tributaries
Although Trisanto, when roughly translated
Could also mean 'one who goes across', perhaps the rivers three

Arundel for many years, served as a port
Ships docking at the Town Quay, formerly Mayors Quay
From the 13th century, coastal and cross channel trading vessels
Also passengers, Catholic priests, and soldiers, were carried across the sea

Yet by the 1840's, use of the river declined
Due to changes in coastal shipping, and the use of railway lines
By the mid 1850's, barges were replaced by coasters
And by 1886, most river traffic, was on the decline

The River Arun has seen much history
all 37 miles of it, from source to the sea
As it rises from a series of Ghylis, or Gills
All part of it'' profound majesty

It's Spring Tides, twice every Lunar month
Allowed larger vessels to venture along her waters
Some built at the Nineveh Shipyard
Such as Hoys, and Sailing Barges, becoming the Aruns' daughters

The River Arun, feeds ancient woodlands
And reedbeds, where dwell Water Voles, Kingfishers, the rare Nene Goose
Along with Bewick Swans, in the cold winter months
Where the yellow, and black, Common Club-Tailed Dragonflies, fly loose

The fast flowing Arun, second fastest in the United Kingdom
The Trespassers waters, has aided humans, and nature throughout
The Arun never crossed borders out of Sussex
And is one of the countries finest rivers, without a doubt
by Jemia

Cannibals rust on the dusty plains
the roots erode in the acid rain
trek towards the carnival grounds
enchanted by the torturous sounds.
Survived too long on rotted grains
the barker introduces me to his game:
dunk the mayors of ghost towns
into water, till they all drown.
I can't make out the weather
singed into Eva's feather
'cause Thalia's eyes conquer my mind
and leave the devil's contract unsigned.
Rapists and thieves, in equal measure,
indulge themselves in mechanical pleasures,
while the barker calls out in lucid rhymes
Ulysses rolls on the wheels of time

On through the night, to 3 a.m.
the price, in blood, is what we're payin'
to roll around in pre-dug graves
hoping we're the ones the preacher saves
to crucify us for what we're saying
lamenting on the carnival's decaying
till it's gone, and over it is paved
the barker's tomb, with his quotes so depraved.